


Out to Sea

by track_04



Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, Snark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-01
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:48:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21636142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/track_04/pseuds/track_04
Summary: I need a friend, oh I need a friendTo make me happy, not so aloneLook at me here, here on my own againUp straight in the sunshine
Relationships: Marcus/John Wick
Comments: 1
Kudos: 44
Collections: 300bpm Flash Exchange November 2019





	Out to Sea

**Author's Note:**

  * For [asuralucier](https://archiveofourown.org/users/asuralucier/gifts).



> Inspired by Wonderful Life by Smith & Burrows

"I hate this city." Marcus leaned against the edge of the balcony and stared at the dark, dirty buildings spread out beneath them. The air was heavy with humidity that the bright sun had done little to dissipate. It clung to his hair and clothing, weighing him down, making every movement he made more difficult.

John was silent as he stepped up beside him, looking unaffected by the heat or the heavy air, wearing only a thin t-shirt and a pair of boxers. He laid his hand on the rail, leaving a wide gap between them. The bandage on his forearm was a fresh white and his hair was wet from the shower, the ends curling damply against the collar of his shirt. "You'll be home tomorrow."

"Yeah." Marcus watched John shift, noted the way his shirt bunched oddly around his waist, the cotton catching on the equally fresh white bandages wrapped haphazardly around his middle. He frowned, giving John his most level stare. It surprised him sometimes, how young John looked when he wasn't trying to impress anyone. "You ever try something like that again, and I'll kill you myself."

John nodded once, acknowledging that he'd heard him, but didn't bother making any sort of promises. They both knew he wouldn't keep them.

"You still bleeding?"

"No. The stitches are holding." John shifted and Marcus stared at his stomach, tried to decide if he could see the beginnings of blood on his shirt. "You did a good job. Thanks."

"You owe me," Marcus said, giving in to his paranoia and tugging up the edge of John's shirt, staring at the bandages. They were damp around the edges, like John had wrapped himself up without drying off completely, but there wasn't any blood showing through them. He dropped the shirt and turned, putting his back to the railing. "I don't help patch up just anyone, you know. Especially not idiots who run headfirst into trouble and get themselves cut."

"I know." John shrugged, sounding about as repentant as Marcus had expected him to. He leaned forward, resting some of his weight against the railing, favoring his side. The corners of his mouth were tight with pain.

Marcus sighed, decided he'd been punished enough for one night, and waved him inside. "Go lay down before you fall over. I already lugged you around once today, and I'm not doing it again."

John nodded, offered him a brief, grateful look, and shuffled slowly inside.

Marcus stayed on the balcony a bit longer, sweating and watching the sky slowly dim. The next time he agreed to a job with John, he was making sure he knew where the ten closes doctors were; assuming that his old contacts would be good enough when John inevitably ended up bleeding on the floor had been his first mistake. He was just glad that they'd been up against a group of low-life idiots who didn't know how to gut a man properly, and that John was, on occasion, smart enough to dodge.

He felt the start of a sunburn on the back of his neck and gave in, stepping into to the slightly less cloying heat of their room. John was on his back on the bed, eyes closed and an almost-full bottle of bourbon on the nightstand beside him. The fact that he wasn't trying to prove how not-injured he was was surprising, if not totally unexpected, given the number of stitches he had in his side.

Marcus sighed, moving to dig a bottle of pills out of his bag. He shook two out into his hand, grabbed one of the questionably-clean glasses off the cheap table taking up one corner of the room, and filled it with water from the bathroom tap. He laid both on the nightstand and rounded the bed, climbing in to sit beside John. 

"Take that before you go to sleep."

John opened one eye and turned his head to stare at the tiny white pills. He sat up slowly, careful of his side, and swallowed them without argument.

"Hurts that bad, huh? You usually at least try to argue."

John finished off the glass of water and set it on the nightstand beside the bourbon. "It's fine."

"Don't bullshit a bullshitter, kid." Marcus watched as he settled against the pillows, glancing down at his stomach again. His shirt was still a clean, unblemished white. "I oughtta tell Viggo about that shit you pulled back there."

John snorted. "The job's done. He won't care."

Marcus didn't bother arguing. He reached down, lifting John's shirt to check his bandages again. "Yeah, well, I care. You know what it would do to my rep if I let you get killed on my watch?"

John closed his eyes. "Just tell them you did it. You have my permission."

"I don't need your permission." He pulled John's shirt down again, hiding the bandages from view, and settled back against the pillow beside him. The gun he had tucked beneath it dug into his back. The one good thing about this shitty city was that no one else wanted to be here, either, so it wasn't like anyone was going to come looking for them, even in a cheap motel with nothing in the way of security. The only people who might have been inclined to try were lying in the back of a disposal vehicle by now, already starting to rot. "You going to be able to sleep tonight?"

"I'll manage."

"I've got more pills."

John waved his hand at the bottle of bourbon. "I'm covered."

"Yeah, sure." Marcus rolled his eyes and reached out to pat his thigh. "Come on."

John opened his eyes, expression vaguely confused. "What?"

"I'm not getting on a plane with you tomorrow if you're hung over, and you're never going to relax like this. And if you don't relax, you won't sleep, and neither will I." He prodded at John's thigh again and gave John a pointed look. John got the picture finally and spread his legs, watching as Marcus climbed between them. "Don't worry, I'll make it quick."

John gave him an unimpressed look. "How romantic."

"You want romance, find someone else," Marcus said, sliding John's boxers down just enough to get a hand around his cock, never one to waste time on pleasantries. He pressed his other hand against John's hip to keep him still as he started to stroke him, a gentleness to his touch that couldn't be found in his words. "Try not to move too much. You'll rip your stitches."

John grunted--in agreement or annoyance or reluctant acknowledgement of Marcus's existence--and shut his eyes again. Marcus took the opportunity to watch his face, enjoying the novelty of watching John when John wasn't bothering to watch him back, reading him like he read everyone and looking for something they'd probably never talk about. It took a few minutes of his hand working his cock, movements deliberate as he coaxed him into hardness, before John's expression started to relax, the pain fading from around the corners of his mouth.

Marcus waited until his breathing deepened, took on that quiet neediness that was so easy to miss, and leaned down, wrapping his mouth around his cock. He bobbed his head slowly, felt John's fingers brushed against his hair, and closed his eyes. The air was warm and thick around them, and the bed beneath them loudly protested their every movement, and the edges of the bandages around John's stomach were rough against his fingertips. They were all reminders of how badly this one had gone, that they were still stuck for one more night in this shitty city, but he liked the way John filled his mouth, the little twitches his hips made against the mattress when Marcus drew him in completely. He filed it all away for later, knowing he'd pull them out again on one of those nights when he let himself remember that there was more to life than the recoil of his rifle and the number of zeroes at the end of his bank account. He'd lived long enough to earn a few nights like that, whether or not he actually enjoyed them.

It didn't take much for John to finish, already wound tight from the job and the pain. He spilled hot across his tongue and down the back of his throat, fingers tightening in Marcus's hair, just enough to hurt. Marcus worked him through it, let himself linger a moment longer than was necessary before he pulled away. John's cock was already going soft as it slipped between his lips; he tucked it back into John's underwear, the spit on his skin leaving damp spots on the cloth.

He wiped the traces of John from his mouth with the back of his hand, still watching him. "You good?"

"Yeah." John blinked up at him, hand finding its way to Marcus's waist, an unspoken question in the brush of his fingers.

Marcus pushed it away, more gently than he'd intended, and shook his head. "You can owe me one."

John smiled fleetingly and laid his hand on his stomach, just above the bandages. "I owe you more than one."

"Yeah." Marcus almost smiled back, his voice quiet. "Get some sleep. We've got an early flight."

"Thanks, Marcus."

"Anytime, kid," Marcus said, climbing off the bed and moving back out onto the balcony. He stayed there, sweating and staring out at the city while John slept almost soundly in the bed behind him.


End file.
